


the odd, uneven time

by celaenos



Series: chirp on about good bones [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celaenos/pseuds/celaenos
Summary: “We’re a mess,” Harry laughs.“A bit, yes, but I think there is room for improvement.”[hermione, after hogwarts]





	the odd, uneven time

**Author's Note:**

> finally, here is part 2! i don't know when part 3 is coming, but it will be a one-shot of pansy's pov from this time post-hogwarts, and then after that bit, we'll get cracking onto the main story. hope you enjoy. happy soon to be new year. fingers crossed it's better than the one before it.

**_i. the odd uneven time_ **

**_…_ **

 

Hermione has never found the Burrow to be stifling before, but it feels that way now.

The Weasleys have fallen into a strange routine in their grief. The house that was once full of so much noise, elbows constantly knocking into other people, smells of food filling up every nook and cranny, is now quiet and subdued. The Weasley home feels like her own, now; bodies shuffling around in avoidance of each other, going through the motions of a routine that no longer works.

Ginny and Ron avoid the Burrow whenever possible—Ron staying in his apartment in the city until his mother’s letters turn into Howlers demanding his presence for dinner, and Ginny, by waking every morning at dawn and slipping outside with her broom. She never returns until late into the evening, slipping into Ron’s old room—Hermione’s for the summer—and climbing into bed with her.

“How was your day?” she whispers.

“Dull. Yours?”

“I perfected a spin on the broom that I’ve been trying to nail for ages,” Ginny says, unable to contain her excitement and pride.

Hermione reaches over and hugs her. “That’s wonderful Ginny.”

Ginny pokes at the papers spread out over the bed. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admits. “I have two days. I have to make a decision.”

“Which one is your favorite? Which one did you really want, when you applied?”

 _Harvard,_ she thinks, but does not say aloud. She didn’t get in, it doesn’t matter anyway. It was always a long shot. A dumb idea. “Cambridge has the best reputation,” she says, and Ginny rolls her eyes.

“But do you _want_ to go there?”

“The law program is wonderful and well respected.”

“Hermione! That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes,” she says, and suddenly finds that it’s true. “But LSE is closer to Harry and Ron, and it would be wonderful to live in London. It’s also a well-respected school with a solid law program.”

“So, Manchester’s out, at least,” Ginny says. Hermione nods, but stops nodding the minute that Ginny adds, “I don’t know why you would make a life-changing decision on being closer in proximity to my dumb brother, but, do whatever you want, I suppose.”

“Harry would be there too,” Hermione reminds Ginny. “Not too long ago, you wanted to be in much closer proximity to him, if I remember correctly.”

Ginny huffs and rolls away. “He’s barely spoken to me in months. Harry has no idea how to talk to women, and he treats me like I’m not also someone who lived through Voldemort. In fact, he seems to forget it rather often.”

“He can be a bit daft,” Hermione agrees. “But he’s got a good heart.”

“You’re saying that because he’s your best friend.”

“I am.”

“Well, he may be a good friend, but I think he’s a shit boyfriend. I’m not waiting around for him to clue in on it,” she says this as though the thought has only just now solidified inside of her chest, become a solid thing that she can grab onto. “Maybe someday it’ll work out between us, maybe not. Right now, it’s not.”

She rolls out of the bed, her bare feet falling to the floor with a thud before she uprights herself. “Pick a school Hermione, they’re both good,” she bends down and kisses Hermione’s temple. “Night.”

Hermione pushes the papers onto the floor and sighs.

…

…

“Want some?” Harry asks, holding up his ice cream cone?”

Hermione nods, frowning at her papers.

“They’re both good, why does it matter?” Ron asks, mirroring his sister’s opinion from the night before. “Me too Harry,” he calls. Hermione merely frowns at him. “Alright,” he stammers. “Well then… we’ll make a pros and cons list! Pro, LSE is closer to us.”

“That could also be a con, depending on how you look at it,” Harry grins, walking over with three melting ice cream cones in his hands. His shoulder bumps into Hermione’s after she takes her cone, his smile infectious. She rolls her eyes, quickly licking up the melting bits.

“Hermione,” Harry says, pointedly. “We can all _Apparate,_ ” he catches her eye, serious. “Go wherever you want.”

“Harry’s right,” Ron adds. “Don’t pick something if you don’t want it just because of us.”

“LSE is a good school,” she protests, but it sounds weak even to her ears.

“Yeah, but Cambridge is _Cambridge,_ ” Ron counters. “What!?” he adds when Hermione looks over at him in surprise. “I looked them all up after you said that you were applying.”

Her chest warms, and she reaches over and grips at Ron’s hand, silent.

…

…

Now that the decision is made, Hermione actually finds herself enjoying the summer. She does not wake at the crack of dawn like Ginny, instead, shuffling downstairs sometime after nine to find Molly in the garden. There is always coffee and tea made. Oatmeal, eggs, anything that Hermione wants. Usually, she has breakfast with George, which is strange.

She’s never spent much time with the twins themselves, and now, the absence of Fred stretches out in the air between them. The year mark has come and gone. Perhaps it’s terribly selfish of her, but Hermione is intensely grateful to have been away at Hogwarts for the date.

Ginny spent the day snapping at everyone, or silent, but she trailed along after Hermione and Astoria all the same, not wanting to be alone.

“Sleep alright?” George asks her, as he does most mornings.

“Yes. You?”

George shrugs, swigging the rest of his coffee as he pushes away from the table. “Got to get to the shop, don’t let Gin fall off her broom.”

“I’ll do my best,” Hermione laughs.

…

…

June goes by in a snap.

Hermione sends her information to Cambridge and starts each of her mornings in the Burrow with George. She takes sweet iced tea out to Molly on her way to find Ginny, a book underneath her arm.

Ginny practices in the meadow and Hermione reads until they’re both hungry. Sometimes, Ginny jumps into the lake to cool off, splashing at Hermione with glee before they _Apparate_ to the boy’s apartment to meet them for lunch. Ginny and Harry spend the first two weeks or so awkward with each other, but sometime near the end of June, Ginny cracks a joke and Harry laughs and suddenly, they’re friends properly again.

Hermione and Ron spend an equal amount of time in a strange sort of limbo, though the awkwardness for them lies more in the unknown of their futures than in the past. Ron is drifting—working at the pub and hanging out with Harry, Dean, and Seamus, and visiting his mother when she demands it of him. Hermione is off to four more years of rigorous school, at the very least.

It becomes moot the first week in July when Hermione walks with Ron on his way to work, and he leans down, unsure for a moment, before kissing her.

Hermione starts reading in a booth in the pub while Ron works, occasionally, instead of following Ginny into the meadows every day. She watches him sometimes, when he’s not quite paying attention. Ron is a hard worker. The muscles on his arms have grown more defined, part of his job is lifting heavy boxes full of bottles of liquor in the stockroom. He smiles shyly whenever he catches her looking, and this time, Hermione is the one to initiate a kiss with him.

For once in her life, Hermione doesn’t overthink things. She doesn’t worry about what is going to happen once summer ends, and it seems that Ron doesn’t either.

They make out in his old bedroom and something about it feels scandalous, with Ginny and his parents all downstairs, oblivious.

They do quite a bit more whenever Harry, Dean, and Seamus are all out of the apartment. Hermione tugs Ron’s pants off, the two of them sweating from the exertion and the stifling July heat, and she doesn’t allow herself to think about anything other than how good it feels, how easy it is to spend time with Ron, now. They still bicker with each other constantly, but it’s a familiar thing, full of an exciting tension, rather than annoyance.

Harry walks in on them, the day before his birthday.

“Oi!” he yelps, snapping his hands up to cover his eyes, trying to walk backwards out of the room, tripping over his own feet, and then crashing heavily down onto the floor. “Ow, sorry.”

Hermione bursts into laughter, knocking her head down into Ron’s shaking chest. From the floor, Harry groans and tries to crab-crawl backwards.

“I hate you both,” he whines, as their laughter grows louder.

“No, you don’t mate,” Ron says, “you love us both.”

“Not in this moment I don’t!”

…

…

“How does it feel, being nineteen?” Hermione asks him the next morning. Everyone else is still asleep, and Hermione sits down beside Harry, passing him a mug of coffee. His hair is sticking up in random places and Hermione tries to smooth it down for a minute before giving up.

“Mostly, the same as eighteen.”

They’re quiet for a bit, watching the sun rise slowly from their spot on the roof. Harry sips at his coffee, slow. Hermione can tell from years of knowing him that he is working up to something, so she clamps her mouth shut and waits him out for once in her life.

“It also feels like… well, maybe I should get a job in a pub, like Ron. Or… something.”

“Something?” Hermione prods. “Would you _like_ a job in a shop?”

“Not really. I sort of… I mean, I always kind of liked the idea of being an auror, I thought.”

“Really?”

He turns, noting the skepticism in her voice with surprise. “Does it not sound like me?” he asks, unoffended. Genuinely curious.

“I mean — it’s not as if I can’t picture it,” she says. “I can. Only… I think perhaps you might be… romanticizing it, a bit.” His eyebrows raise at her in question, the slightest tinge of offense to his brow, and Hermione starts babbling to squash it. “I only mean, there’s quite a lot of bureaucracy that goes into being an auror, which frankly, having known you since you were eleven, I think would make you want to rip your hair out after about a year or so.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I could get over—”

“You’ve saved the world already quite a lot, Harry,” she says, quietly cutting him off. “You don’t have to keep being the one to do it. I’m only saying… you told me not to go to a school out of an obligation. Don’t go starting a career out of one either.”

Harry jerks back from her in surprise, his fingers clutching tightly around his mug. Hermione curls her arm into his, resting her head against his shoulder. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispers.

“You too,” he adds, resting his head on top of her own. “Okay?”

“It’s a deal.”

He laughs, causing their heads to knock together a bit.

“There you two are,” Ron says, climbing up to the roof. He plops down on the other side of Harry, resting his head down against his other shoulder without missing a beat. “Happy birthday mate,” he says, and the three of them watch the sun crawl its way across the sky until they’re hungry enough to go back down in search of breakfast.

…

…

August is gone in a flash, somehow.

Hermione receives her course information. Her roommate to be is a girl called Murphy. Suddenly, it’s all very real. She hasn’t been to a muggle school since she was ten years old, and her time spent in primary school was awful and lonely. Hermione has a panic attack out in the meadow. Ginny is flying above her, Astoria lying petulantly beside her in the grass, complaining about the heat, and Hermione suddenly cannot breathe. She might be trying to scream; her mouth is open. Nothing comes out and Hermione clutches at the grass, trying to gulp the air as she hears a horrible choking noise. _Merlin,_ she hopes that isn’t coming from her.

Astoria scrambles over and nearly falls on top of Hermione in her haste to get to her side. “Hermione!” she hollers, frightened. “What’s wrong… _Ginny!”_ she screams at the sky. Hermione has never heard her sound so frightened before. A small part of her brain notes that she hates it.

Ginny flies down to them in a flash, and then they’re both sat on either side of her, hands hovering, unsure if they should touch her or not. Finally, Ginny presses herself down beside Hermione, pushing close so that their shoulders and arms are touching. Skin to skin.

“Lie down,” she orders Astoria. “Don’t grab her.”

“Ginny—”

“This used to happen to Percy, sometimes. Just lie down like this,” turning her attention to Hermione, she says firmly, “Hermione, you are going to be okay. Try to pay attention to how we’re breathing and match it. Look up at the clouds. You’re okay.”

“We’ve got you,” Astoria says, determined. Her fingers reach towards Hermione but she clenches them into fists to stop herself.

Hermione focuses on their skin, pressed against her own, on their breaths, on the clouds, on the fact that she has faced Death Eaters and survived. She won’t die of this, whatever it is. She is stronger. It takes a while, but Hermione’s breath comes back to her. She reaches out after a moment, sliding her palms into theirs and squeezing tight. Astoria nearly folds her body on top of Hermione’s the second that she reaches for her. Absently, Hermione wonders what Astoria’s life is like when she isn’t with them—she is the most tactile person that Hermione has ever met. Her (limited, she admits) experience with Slytherin families doesn’t quite match up with the lithe girl beside her.

“Thank you,” she croaks. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Ginny tells her, fierce. Astoria’s hand grips back tighter, then she tilts her head up and kisses Hermione’s cheek. Hermione releases the breath that she had been holding with a jerky nod.

“Shall we swim?” Astoria asks, after a few minutes of silence.

“Definitely,” Ginny decides and sits up, yanking her tank top up over her head and chucking it off to the side. “Come on Hermione, clothes off.”

“I… don’t…”

“You strip on the regular for my brother, don’t be shy now.”

Hermione goes bright red and Astoria cracks with laughter, tugging her own shirt up over her head. The two of them jump into the lake in their underwear, and after a beat, Hermione joins them, the water a stunning relief to the heat. Hermione closes her eyes and sinks underneath the surface. The last time she can remember going swimming was the public pool when she was eight or so. Her father had tossed her up into the air—high enough that even uncoordinated Hermione could flip herself backwards. Her mother had cheered and cringed with equal enthusiasm. They could be at the water right now, too. Australia is full of beaches, Hermione guesses. Maybe her mother is underneath the sea at this very moment. Maybe at one point, it was the same water that Hermione is in now.

Hermione opens her mouth and screams into the lake. The water swallowing up the sounds for her. Then, she swims up to the surface and splashes Ginny, faking a smile until it turns real.

 

…

**_ii. nature, trying to fill you up with color_ **

**_…_ **

 

She doesn’t bring enough things to decorate her side of the dorm. That much is apparent when she looks over at Murphy’s things. She is an artist or an art enthusiast of sorts. There are bright colors and splashes of brilliance—it looks like a real bedroom.

Hermione’s walls are bare. Her collection of books is already impressive and stacked up along her desk and windowsill, but, there isn’t a single bit of personality elsewhere.

Except for her plant from Neville.

It’s called Stella, which Hermione feels equal parts embarrassed and charmed by. Astoria had insisted that it needed a name, and before Hermione could frown at her Ginny, Neville, and Luna had all quickly agreed and begun arguing about the best possible name. Ron had tapped on her shoulder, full of amusement, as Harry made a face at her from across the crowded booth.  

“Stella, then,” Hermione finally decides, after they’ve been arguing and hounding her for the better part of an hour.

“Why Stella?” Ginny asks, her nose scrunched up, more in confusion this disgust.

“When I inevitably kill it, I call holler STELLLLLLA in anguish.”

Everyone frowns at her, and then Harry bursts into uncontrollable laughter. “STEEELLLLLLLLA,” he yells. “Oh my god,” he can’t talk through his wheezing, and now Hermione is laughing too. “I saw that movie with Aunt Petunia once. It was the weirdest afternoon of my life.”

“What?” Ron prods at her shoulder, his arm draped alongside it. They still haven’t discussed what happens tomorrow, despite the fact that they had sex earlier this morning.

“It’s a muggle film,” Hermione explains.

“Can we watch one?” Astoria asks.

“Oh… well…”

“When you’re back on holiday,” she adds.

“Sure,” Hermione shrugs, leaning further into Ron.

So, her plant is called Stella.

Murphy thinks it’s hilarious. Hermione had the artist bit correct. She comes bursting into their room in a pair of overalls that are covered in paints, her jet-black hair piled messily on top of her head and held there precariously with a tie-dye scarf. She skids to a stop at the sight of Hermione and grins after chucking her bag on top of her bed. “Hullo,” she beams, sticking her hand out to shake. “You must be Hermione.”

It takes twenty minutes of chatting for them to get around to Stella’s namesake, and Murphy laughs nearly as hard as Harry had three days prior. “STEEELLLLLA,” she hollers, causing their neighbors to bang on the wall and tell them to quiet down. “That’s amazing.”

Her face pinches up when Hermione mentions law, an hour later, once they’ve left the dorms in search of food and coffee. Murphy already seems to know quite a lot of people, despite only having arrived four hours before Hermione did. She’s friendly and open in a way that Hermione hasn’t encountered in a while.

She hasn’t just come out of a war, like nearly everyone else that Hermione knows at the moment. That may have something to do with it. That, or the fact that she is from Liverpool.

“We’re all like this,” Murphy says, after they’ve discussed some of where they’re each from. She waves her hand and chugs the dregs of her coffee, grinning. “You got any siblings?”

“No.”

“I’ve got two brothers. One older, one younger. Idiots, the pair of ‘em,” she says, fond.

Three other girls that Murphy met from their dorm come over and join them, and Hermione sits quietly and smiles and nods in what she hopes are all the appropriate places. When they finally head back to the dorm to sleep, it’s going on midnight and Hermione has been nodding off for the better part of the last half hour.

She listens to Murphy shuffling around as she gets ready for bed, and then it’s just the noise of the place—muffled girl voices that become a familiar low hum over the next few months, and Hermione drifts off to sleep.

…

…

Her courses are astoundingly difficult.

Hermione throws herself into her studies with enthusiasm that she doesn’t think she ever matched even at Hogwarts, somehow.

When Harry and Ron show up on her birthday, only a few weeks into the first semester, they seem astounded at her offering up twenty minutes for a drink in between her trip to the library.

“Hermione…” Ron looks around at her side of the room. Her clothes and papers are strewn about everywhere. It’s the messiest she’s ever been. “A break might do you good. How about dinner?”

“I—” she is about to say no, but then she catches Harry’s eye and swallows the word down despite her instincts. Nodding, she smooths down her hair and follows them out of her room.

The break _is_ nice, but it lasts only as long as Harry and Ron are there. She bids them goodnight and starts writing a paper that isn’t due for three weeks, working well into the night.

…

…

The leaves turn brilliant colors, and the chill in the air becomes more pronounced. Murphy is adamant about dragging Hermione out with her at least every other weekend.

Tonight, she is refusing to take no as an answer. “You’ve finished two weeks’ worth of work. You’re ahead on all of your readings. We are going dancing and we are going to eat some chocolate cake.”

“Why cake?”

“Why _not_ cake Hermione Granger?”

Her instinct is to argue. She could cite nutrition, frivolous cost, cavities—the notion immediately brings up thoughts of her parents, so she doesn’t argue at all. Instead, she tugs the jean jacket that Murphy chucks at her on, reaches for a scarf, and follows her out the door.

Murphy has wrangled a pack of girls—she’s friends with _everyone—_ but Hermione never feels like she is just tagging along. Murphy makes it a point to introduce her to the ones she doesn’t know and loops her arms with Hermione’s as they walk down the street. She flounces away and chats with other girls, passes drinks and coats and lipstick back and forth, and then reappears in front of Hermione, beaming.

“You and I are dancing,” she declares and tugs Hermione along. The music is loud; the bass vibrating through Hermione’s whole body as Murphy slides her arms around Hermione’s hips. It’s far closer than she has ever danced with anyone before, there is almost no space between them and Murphy is using Hermione’s body to press against with the beat. Hermione has never danced with a girl like this before. She’s never danced like this with anyone. The Yule Ball in fourth year was the most she’s ever danced with someone and Viktor was shy and kept a bit of a distance.

This is… electric. Murphy is smiling and glistening a little with sweat. The music is a wall of noise that Hermione doesn’t recognize, but the beat is easy to move to, and she finds herself swaying along with Murphy in tandem. Her hands come up to Murphy’s shoulders and Murphy laughs, bright and loud.

“Isn’t this great?” she yells.

Hermione can’t really understand, but she nods anyway. The sentiment gets across. Some more girls bounce their way over, and Hermione ends up in a pile, limbs everywhere as the beat thrums through their bodies. One of Murphy’s friends from art class, a girl called Rita, slides herself behind Hermione and blocks out a boy who’d been trying to do the same. Her arms snake around Hermione’s middle and she calls into her ear. “Y’alright?”

Hermione nods and dances against her body for the remainder of the song, the boy going off in a sulk.

The music changes and Hermione is desperate for the restroom. She says as much to Rita, who nods. “Me too,” she grabs Hermione’s hand. “Come on!” It takes them ages to push their way across the dance floor to the line at the bathrooms. It’s quieter over here and Rita chats away happily, asking Hermione about law and her coursework and her friends back home. She is surprisingly easy to talk to, and Hermione finds herself telling Rita quite a lot, leaving out anything involving magic and war.

“You dating anyone?” she asks, once they’ve managed to edge their way into the restroom proper.

“Um… sort of?”

Rita laughs. “Yeah, I got one of those too. She’s great, but we’d kill each other if we were exclusive,” Rita shrugs and ducks into the open stall. “How ‘bout yours?” she calls.

“Um… what’d you mean?”

“Are you and this Sort Of exclusive?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says honestly. She and Ron never had a conversation about it, now that she thinks on it. They kissed again when he and Harry came for her birthday, and they’ve called each other a few times, but Hermione doesn’t really know where they stand.

“Well,” the toilet flushes and Rita walks out and begins washing her hands. “If you figure it out and the answer is no, give me a call,” she says.

Hermione blinks at her in confusion. Has she been flirting this whole time? Probably, since once Hermione’s washed her own hands, Rita pulls a sharpie out of her pocket and scribbles her dorm number down, eyeing Hermione as she does so. She caps the pen and holds out her arm, “Shall we head back into the masses? Murph promised me chocolate cake.”

Hermione laughs and takes Rita’s arm. “She promised me as well.”

“I vote we go collect.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They make their way back onto the dance floor and Murphy hollers happily at the sight of them. Rita mentions cake and at least four other girls cheer and scream. Murphy leads the way to a bakery that apparently holds very late and odd hours, and Hermione has some of the best chocolate cake she has ever had in her life. Her leg pressed up against Rita’s the entire time.

…

…

Hermione calls Ron the next morning.

Murphy is still asleep, most of the girls on their floor are. Hermione doesn’t have to wait in line for the telephone. She shuts the little door and props her legs up on the wall, sliding quarters into the device before dialing the number Harry installed in their apartment. Ron’s father came over and made eighteen calls in quick succession to Hermione. The RA told Hermione that her uncle isn’t allowed to call again unless it is a matter of life or death. It was easier to say just yes than to explain how she knew Arthur.

The phone rings three times before someone answers. “Hullo?”

“Dean?”

“Hey, Hermione,” he says, sleepy. “H’re ya?”

“I’m alright, you?”

“Solid. Want Harry, or Ron?”

“Ron, please. If he’s there.”

“Hang on…” there’s some shuffling and Hermione hears muffled cursing and then something loud before Ron’s voice comes on the line.

“Hermione?”

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey, how are things?”

“Alright, you?”

“Not bad.”

Hermione has never done well with subtlety, so she gets right to it. “Are we exclusive?”

“Er, sorry?”

“Are we dating, Ron?” she clarifies. “Are you my boyfriend and I’m I your girlfriend? And if so, are we only dating each other, or not?”

“Er…” Ron makes a choking noise and Hermione sighs. “Um, do you… want to be?” Ron asks.

“I don’t know,” Hermione tells him, honest. She likes spending time with Ron. He is one of her best friends. She likes having sex with him and she likes hanging out with him, but she’s not sure if that makes for a relationship or not.

“I — I mean, I like you, Hermione. I’d like to be your boyfriend. But I don’t want—” he cuts himself off.

“What?”

She hears him sigh. She can easily picture the way that he is running his fingers through his hair. It’s getting longer, unless he’s gotten it cut since she saw him last.

“I mean, we could try long distance. I’m okay with that. We’ve known this was going to happen since June.”

“But we never discussed what it entailed.”

“No, guess not.”

“So, we’re doing that now.”

“Okay,” he sighs again and Hermione hears more shuffling. He’s probably dragging the chord as long as it will go so he can make some coffee and toast. “D’you wanna start, or me?” he asks a moment later.

“Um… I suppose I can, if you want.”

“I guess — look, Hermione, I really like what we have going on. I don’t… need it to be more than it is, I guess. But I’m willing to work on it being more if that’s what you want?”

“I don’t know if it is,” she says. “I sort of like it like this too.”

“Okay, so… we’re on the same page there?”

“Yes.”

“Alright… then, I guess we talk about um, what you mentioned.”

“Whether or not we’re exclusive.”

“Er, yeah. That.”

“Are there any other girls in London you fancy? Or boys?”

“Um, no boys.”

“Is there a girl?”

“Um… I don’t know,” he says.

“That sounds like its edging for a yes but you don’t want me to be angry with you.”

He sighs again.

“There might be a girl I like,” she says, bravely. It feels brave because she doesn’t want Ron to be angry with her, either. Not to mention, she doesn’t even know if she does actually fancy Rita, or if the attraction is flattering.

“Oh?” Ron says, his voice gone high. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione tells him. “But it got me thinking enough to call you. And to talk about it.”

“Oh.”

“Is that… what are you thinking right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is a conversation where we both don’t know very much,” Hermione says, a bit frustrated at her lack of emotional maturity and Ron laughs.

“That’s not usually your area,” he teases.

“University is changing me.”

“Nah, not that much,” his voice has gone soft, easy. He is probably sitting up on the countertop and sipping at his coffee. He’s comfortable, not angry. Hermione loves him, fiercely, in this moment. She loves him most days, but it usually feels closer to how she loves Harry. Right now, it’s similar to that, but there is a different energy to the way her chest is tight and loose at the same time. Hermione smiles and picks at the edge of her pajamas.

“So…” she says, unsure all of the sudden.

“So,” he echoes. “We’re keeping things the same as they’ve been going. But we’re not exclusive,” he says, almost easy.

“Okay,” Hermione agrees. When she hangs up, the sharpie number on her hand smudges.

…

…

Hermione does go on a date with Rita.

If _date_ means making out in Rita’s dorm room while her roommate is out. If _date_ means tugging Rita’s clothes off and relishing in the noises that Hermione can pull out of her. If _date_ means that this happens twice over the course of a month and then Hermione and Rita never speak to each other again after that.

It’s a mutual decision, even if it does feel a bit more like Hermione’s choice. There’s nothing painful about it, which feels strange. Hermione supposes that she _should_ be more attached; to Rita, or to Ron but… she isn’t. It’s easy for her to have fun and then not think about it anymore. To have a wonderful time and then to throw herself into coursework and not come up and talk to another human being other than Murphy and her professors until the end of November.

She receives Ginny’s letters but doesn’t write back. Astoria sends flowers pressed into her letters and when Hermione forgets to write back, a Howler, appropriately, on Halloween.

That one is a bit hard to explain to Murphy.

 

…

**_iii. nothing burns like the cold_ **

…

 

Hermione receives her first B- on an assignment right before the semester is ending and has another panic attack.

Murphy doesn’t react with the same level of calm that Ginny had, a few months prior, but she tries. She keeps a silent vigil at the foot end of Hermione’s bed while she gasps and clutches at the sheets, trying to force air back into her lungs. She offers to go get the RA multiple times over but Hermione manages to shake her head fiercely each time. Once Hermione has managed to calm herself down, Murphy sits down on the end of her bed, legs tucked up, resting her chin on her knees.

“If you want to talk about anything…” she says.

Hermione starts to shrug her off. To insist that this was just panic over a grade and she will be fine, but Murphy’s face pinches.

“I’ve heard your nightmares,” she says, soft. “I don’t know what happened, but… it might help to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be with me,” she insists. “Just… think about it?”

“I will,” Hermione promises.

She studies like a maniac, scrapes by through her finals, and _Apparates_ to London. Murphy’s face stays pinched when Hermione hugs her goodbye and says “Happy Christmas,” her voice barely more than a croak.

…

…

Her second semester goes by about the same as the first: Hermione throws herself into her studies, isolates herself from her friends, wakes up in dead sweats from nightmares, the scar on her arm aching, the image of Harry’s limp body seared into her skull. It’s worse somehow, than it was last year. Hermione thought maybe the distance would make it easier, but it seems to be having the opposite effect.

She has three panic attacks during the spring semester, each one lasting longer than the one before it.

She doesn’t hear from her parents all year beyond a letter sent on her birthday, and another at Christmas.

To be fair, she doesn’t call them, either.

…

…

Summer is somehow far more difficult than her first school year, which is surprising. It was much easier to isolate herself and just study with miles of distance between London and Hogwarts, even with _Apparate._

Ginny and Astoria both don’t do well to be ignored, and when Astoria sees Hermione for the first time since last summer and notices how much weight she has lost, Astoria immediately starts to cry.

“Astoria,” Ginny hisses, pinching her, horrified.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks. “I just—” she walks over, her arms opening and then freezing, like she is afraid that she’s not allowed to touch Hermione anymore. Like the year of distance has changed their short-lived friendship dramatically. Hermione quickly opens her arms. “I’m sorry,” Astoria repeats, stepping close and clinging to Hermione. “I missed you so much. It’s not — I just missed you.”

Hermione lets Astoria fuss over her all summer long. She makes it a point to eat better, especially while Astoria is watching. She seems to always be watching. Now that she has graduated Hogwarts Astoria seems to have found her footing in a way that she hadn’t last year. It’s a palpable difference, where she was sometimes ashamed of Slytherins last year, she’s proud and determined to change their image now that she isn’t technically one anymore.

“I’ll always be one,” she says, shrugging as Hermione picks at her sandwich. Astoria’s shoulders brush up and down against Hermione’s as she shrugs, she always sits close enough to people so that they touch. “Just like you’ll always be a Gryffindor. Leaving school doesn’t change any of that. Not in our world,” she tilts her dessert towards Hermione. “Want some of my cake?”

“No thanks.”

Summer crawls on, and Hermione retains none of it.

…

…

She is halfway to a messy orgasm, her hands dug into her underwear, the late July heat sweltering, even past midnight when Ron knocks on her door. She squelches her frustrated groan, ignores his apologies, and yanks off his boxers in a hurried agonized motion.

Grief is a terrible reason to go to bed with someone, probably, but when Hermione presses Ron down against the thin mattress, sweat covered sheets catching on the pale dip of his thigh, his slim fingers digging into her hips, her hungry lips leaving marks up and down Ron’s neck, she starts to understand the appeal. It is less about grief, perhaps, than it is about a ritual casting out of yearning, of hunger. Staking a claim and making a choice, allowing herself to feel something other than the grief, for a bit. She can feel it as it’s happening. Ron is trying to catch her eye, aroused but confused and worried as she writhes beneath him, arching her back and dodging his gaze until they’re both spent and shaking. This is about closure; the two of them are kindred spirits, Hermione has known this since they were eleven, and Ron stood up and threw a rock at a troll for her. But, she’s only learning now that it’s not a forever kind of thing in the way they’ve been leaning. She wasn’t sure, till now. She presses her palms into her eyes.

“We’re probably not going to ever do that again, are we?” Ron asks, lying beside her, but not touching her. He always was smarter than people gave him credit for, especially when it comes to things like this, things like feelings. Things where Hermione finds herself frustrated and confused and lacking. It’s part of why she’s drawn to him, she thinks. Hermione can’t bring herself to look at Ron, there is a heavy guilt pressing down onto her chest and she doesn’t know the full meaning of why. “Hermione?” he whispers, gentle. “Are you okay?”

 _No,_ her chest screams. _No, I am not._ She doesn’t tell him, though, her silence is a kind of an answer to Ron, in of itself.

“Do you want me to leave, or do you want me to stay?” he asks.

“Stay,” she croaks. “You can stay.”

Ron tugs his boxers back on, passes Hermione her underwear and curls into himself on the bed. His palm folds up, resting beside their bodies. After a beat or two, Hermione slips their hands together. The heat is sweltering, nothing like Grimmauld Place, but Hermione thinks of it anyway, of the last time she slept holding Ron’s hand like this, with so much weighing on their shoulders and no one to help them.

They’re _fine,_ now. They should be fine, but they’re not.

Ron wakes first the next morning, he comes back and passes Hermione a mug of tea. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s not what I — I was only coming to check on you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Hermione assures him. “I’m not. It was lovely.”

Ron frowns, scoffing and nearly choking on his own tea. “It was _not._ ”

“No,” Hermione frowns as well, sitting up properly and feeling a smile etch out onto her face. “It wasn’t. I guess _I’m_ sorry, then.”

“Don’t be,” Ron says quickly. “It was lovely other times. I’m not sorry it that happened and I’m not sorry that it’s over. I just…” he looks afraid, for a just moment. “It’s you, and me, and Harry still. Right?”

Hermione grabs his hand. “Of course, Ronald.”

He rolls his eyes and shoves at her shoulder, then grows serious again. “He’s not alright either. Neither am I. Neither is Neville, or Gin, or Mum. I’m not… you don’t have to pretend, alright?”

“Alright,” Hermione croaks back, but she doesn’t exactly meet his eyes.

…

…

The end of August comes too fast. It rolls in heavy and grey, the long days stretching out continually with a taste of preemptive nostalgia. Her mother her calls on a Friday.

“Hello darling,” she says, unsure. Beside her, Astoria shifts, her head whipping around and staring intently at the way that Hermione has frozen in surprise.

 _What?_ she mouths, tugging herself up on top of Harry’s counter, she inches closer towards the telephone; it still baffles her, no matter how many times Hermione explains.

“Hi Mum,” Hermione answers, watching Astoria’s eyes go wide. “How are you?”

“I’m… better,” she decides. “How are you?” she sounds genuine and worried, but everything is still awkward on both of their ends, and Hermione can feel it. Her skin feels too tight. Astoria’s bended knee is bouncing up and down anxiously.

“Who’s that?” Ginny calls, walking into the kitchen with Harry and Neville trailing behind her.

“Her mum,” Astoria whispers, far too loudly. Hermione’s mother asks who’s there, and then Hermione has to name everyone. Then she has to explain that Astoria is a new friend, not one that her mother has met before, and then Astoria beams from on top of Harry’s counter until he frowns and pushes her off.

Then Ginny punches Harry.

“Mum,” Hermione says, “I’ve got to go.”

“Alright,” her mother sounds both disappointed and relieved. Hermione herself feels rather the same. “I’ll talk to you again soon. Have a good semester.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says, and hangs up.

“How’s your mum?” Harry asks, rubbing the spot on his shoulder where Ginny socked him.

“Fine. Anyone hungry?”

“I am,” Astoria announces immediately. Hermione has no idea how one tiny girl can eat so much; her metabolism is insane. If she were anyone else, Hermione would probably hate her for it. As it is, instead, she smiles and nods where Harry cites the Indian place around the corner. She allows Astoria to loop their arms together and presses into a booth beside her and Neville, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Luna across from her.

It’s been slightly awkward to be around Ron, but only because Hermione feels like other people expect them to be something that they’re not. When it’s just the two of them, everything feels normal. Like it’s supposed to. Harry seems to be the only one who understands.

“Does anyone want to split an order of samosas?” Ginny asks.

Hermione eats too much naan and spends the rest of the evening sipping chai while Astoria finishes her saag paneer and rests her head on Hermione’s shoulder. “Daph and Pans came back,” she announces, quietly.

“From their road trip?” Ginny asks.

“With Malfoy?” asks Harry, slight edge to his voice.

“No, with Theo. Draco’s been with his mother.”

The table goes rather quiet. Beside her, Astoria presses her palms together apprehensively and glances, nervous, between Ginny, Hermione, and Harry.

“Happy your sister is back?” Harry asks, a bit strained.

“Yes,” Astoria nods, too many times in a row. “I missed her. Two years is a really long time. She sent letters to me, but, still,” she laughs; all wrong, too raw and then slouches down in her seat, picking at a piece of naan. “Two years of just me and Mum with no Daph as a buffer was kind of rough.”

Hermione frowns. Across the table, she can see that Ginny doing the same, but Astoria is slinking further and further down, and neither of them decides to make a big thing of it for now. Hermione makes a note to ask Astoria about her mother later, though.

“Siblings can be good for that,” Ron says, tossing a piece of naan at Ginny’s face. It tugs the laugh out of Astoria that he was going for after Ginny hollers and chucks some rice at him. The woman behind the counter glares, and Hermione and Harry rise and pay, shuffling the rest of them out of the restaurant before they get kicked out.

The night air is still warm, but it’s cool enough to be comfortable, now. Astoria, Ginny, and Ron are up ahead, bickering lightly as Neville and Luna have their own conversation behind them. Harry walks in tandem with Hermione, hands jammed into his pockets.

“I went to muggle therapy yesterday,” he says, as they fall a step or two behind the others.

Hermione pauses, surprised. “Really?” he nods. “How was it?”

“Weird,” he laughs and shoves his glasses further up his nose. “Not terrible though. But, I mean… I couldn’t really talk about everything. I had to sort of lie. So. I dunno if that’s good therapy, but, I went.”

Hermione swallows thickly. “I haven’t.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs. “I was only telling you, not like, saying you should too.”

“Harry, I—”

“—Do you like being back in muggle school?”

“I do.”

He smiles. “Let’s call each other more this year, yeah?”

“Deal,” Hermione says, and means it.

…

…

Murphy’s glad to see her again, but she seems subdued, like she knows there isn’t much she can do to help Hermione, and there are things she isn’t being told.

“Stella’s still kicking I see?” she says, pointing as Hermione gently sets the plant down on the windowsill.

Hermione smiles. “Chugging along.”

“I’m glad,” Murphy says, soft. “Stella’s tough as shit,” her eyes linger on Hermione, rather than the plant.

“She’s something,” Hermione answers.

“D’you wanna go grab some coffee?”

The word _no_ is on her tongue, pressing up against the roof of her mouth, but Hermione swallows it down and nods.

…

…

Hermione goes to the counselors’ office.

She lies, like Harry did; it doesn’t really help.

Afterwards, she calls Harry and chats with him for an hour. She asks what he’s eating, and he asks the same of her, the both of them laughing. “It wasn’t what I thought it would be,” she says. “I think lying makes it worse.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Maybe wizards have something.”

“I don’t know…”

“Squibs need jobs, don’t they?” Hermione asks.

Harry goes quiet for a moment, then chuckles. “Maybe Mrs. Figg knows. I go ‘round for tea every once in a while. I haven’t been in ages. I’ll ask.”

…

…

Hermione does almost nothing but study for the next month. She eats at least twice a day, more, when she remembers. Astoria sends her eight letters and she responds to two of them. Ginny tries out for a professional Quidditch team and makes it by the skin of her teeth. She comes bursting into Hermione’s room with the news. Legally able to _Apparate_ and forgetting in her excitement that Hermione is at a muggle school. Murphy hollers and falls off her bed.

“Where’d you come from?” she demands, her paints seeping into the carpet.

“Oh, shit,” Ginny mumbles. “Sorry,” bending down to help Murphy clean up and glances nervously up at Hermione in a panic. “I’m really fast.”

“The door’s closed,” Murphy points.

“ _Really_ fast,” Ginny repeats.

Hermione shakes her head. Thankfully, Murphy just rolls her eyes, gathers her paints and walks out of the room, announcing that she is going to the park before the sun sets.

“I got it.” Ginny vibrates and then she is tackling Hermione into her bed, screaming. “I GOT IT!”

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, once Ginny has calmed down slightly.

“YOU GOT IT!” Astoria hollers, _Apperating_ into Hermione’s room and jumping on top of them without warning. Luna isn’t too far behind. Neville restrains himself from jumping on to the pile, but Harry has no compunctions. When they finally all detangle, Ron picks up Ginny and hugs her tight and spins her around before planting a wet kiss on her forehead.

“Proud of you,” he grins.

Ginny punches him, beaming.

…

…

“Squibs have therapy,” Harry announces over the phone, mid-October, with no other greeting.

“Oh… really?”

“I’ve gone already. It was really good. I mean, it was _terrible,_ but really good. If you want to go… Mrs. Figg can find another person, or you can go to the lady I did. I liked her a lot.”

“I… okay,” Hermione agrees, barely thinking.

“We’re a mess,” Harry laughs.

“A bit, yes, but I think there is room for improvement.”

Harry’s laugh rings in her ears, long after she’s walked back to her dorm and curled into bed. It helps. Again.

…

…

The therapy begins helping even more.

Every Tuesday afternoon, after her final course that day, Hermione _Apperates_ to the office of Mrs. Figg’s friend, Yelena. Afterwards, she stops by Andromeda Tonks’ home with Harry and visits baby Teddy.

It’s… _very_ strange.

Andromeda reminds Hermione of Astoria, just a little. She’s not sure _why_ exactly, other than the fact that they are the only two Slytherins that Hermione has ever encountered that she actually likes. Or perhaps they’re both tactile in a similar way, leaving a strange, almost sour taste in her mouth as Hermione spends more and more time with them.

She’s never been around babies before. The only saving grace is that neither has Harry, and he is equally afraid of holding Teddy and hurting him. The toddler doesn’t care about either of their fears, he climbs up them both like they are jungle gyms, hugs them when he wants hugs, and plants wet, slobbery kisses all over their faces if he is in the mood to do so.

It’s a wonderful, simple, human connection and consistently cheers them both up after therapy.

Hermione always would have thought she hated children, it turns out to be rather the opposite.

…

…

Her parents invite her to Australia for Christmas.

They go to the beach at sunset and watch it together silently. Her mother cries and Hermione doesn’t know what to do. They barely talk the entire week that Hermione spends with them, but they all keep trying.

They all keep trying. Hermione clings to that. To the way that her mother reaches for her hand, as she passes her a mug of tea in the morning, to the way that her father pats her head, as he passes by her on the couch as he heads up to bed, to the way her mother cups Hermione’s face in her palms right before she leaves and says: _I love you, and I’m sorry._

Things aren’t better, but they’re inching towards it and Hermione focuses on that.

 

…

**_iv. the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine_ **

**…**

 

A boy in her Monday morning course asks her out on a date in front of the entire class.

They’re in the middle of an argument about the assignment, and he asks if she would like to continue it over dinner. Hermione balks and the entire class including the professor turns and stares, waiting for Hermione’s response.

If she tells him no everyone then will think that she is a bitch, so she nods.

It doesn’t feel like a date. Hermione has dressed up and let Murphy do her hair in a strange updo that pinches, a little, but looks sort of nice. He looks her up and down and he’s clearly attracted to her, and they go right back into their argument from class, but there’s an undercurrent of sexual tension to it on his part, this time. He pays for dinner and she lets him. He loops an arm around her shoulders as they walk into the night, still arguing slightly.

But it still doesn’t feel like a date.

Not even when he leans in and kisses her. Not even as he asks to do it again. Not even when she hears herself saying _yes._ A lot of things haven’t felt like they should in a while, so Hermione just goes with it. Hoping that going through the motions will eventually tug something into her chest, something normal. Something that is supposed to be there.

Hermione spends the rest of the semester occasionally going on dates with the boy, sleeping with him a few times and hoping to feel something that never comes, and studying her ass off. He’s good for that—they bring out different angles and arguments in each other, and it’s a challenge in a way that works. It settles something in her shoulders that feels less like a burden and more like a relief, so Hermione holds onto it until summer rolls around and they both look at each other and decide it isn’t ever going to be anything more.

Or rather, Hermione comes to that conclusion, he snarls and calls her a frigid bitch and throws things.

It solidifies Hermione’s decision, then. And she decides to stop looking at romantic entanglements to try and feel something. It’s a relief.

…

…

She spends the summer in Australia.

Not all of it. Not every moment. She _Apparates_ to therapy, every Tuesday, on schedule. She goes to play with Teddy alongside Harry. He can say quite a jumble of words, now, though they don’t always make sense on the first try, he’s patient. He repeats himself when asked, over and over until they understand him.

One afternoon, mid-July, Hermione is lying in the grass and Teddy is toddling around her while Harry and Andromeda talk in low tones over some cold tea over on the porch. Teddy flops down, pout to his face and opens up his arms, “I hold you,” he demands—his way of asking for the reverse—and knocks his head into her chest. Hermione wraps her arms around him slow, tentative.

“Alright,” she whispers. “Thank you, Teddy.”

She goes home an hour or so later. _Apparating_ into her mother’s new office and telling her about Teddy’s growing vocabulary. Her mother smiles.

“You always spoke like that,” she says. “Though you didn’t have his patience.”

Hermione rolls her eyes as her mother laughs. Her hand rests on Hermione’s shoulder for a few beats. They’re learning, slow, how to be family with jumbled memories and PTSD and tension that perhaps was always there, somewhere.

The fact that Hermione can name it, can put a word, a diagnosis to all of the feelings swirling around inside of her chest helps _immensely._ She hates therapy. Harry does too, but it’s helping them both, so they keep going, week after week after week.

Hermione spends the entire summer emotionally raw. Between her parents and therapy, she doesn’t have much left over for anything else, and her friends must somehow understand that without Hermione attempting to voice it, because they don’t call on her too often.

Her father is trying to teach her how to surf when Astoria and Neville show up. Ginny probably wouldn’t be giving her this much distance if she wasn’t swamped with Quidditch practice 24/7, and frankly, Hermione is astounded that Astoria has been so quiet. She doesn’t ask, because they agreed, two years ago now, not to, but she supposes having Daphne and Pansy back must have something to do with it. Everyone says that she is around less and less.

Hermione’s father blinks at them, then pulls a smile good-naturedly. “Want to learn, too?” he asks. Neville pales, but nods back at him gamely. Astoria gives up after three tries and lies on top of the surfboard on her back, allowing the waves to bounce her up and down until Hermione swims over in defeat and crawls up next to her.

“Hi,” she says, plucking seaweed out of her hair. Her father cheers as Neville manages to stay upright.

“Daph and my mother are fighting,” Astoria says. “Or… _me_ and my mother are fighting,” she amends. “Which means that they are, too, and it’s all my fault.”

“How come?” Hermione edges, careful. In truth, she has known Astoria a full three years now, going on four, and she doesn’t know much about her family at all.

“They… worked with the Dark Lord.”

“Death Eaters?” Hermione asks, voice clipped even when trying not to be. Astoria nods, angry. “Astoria—”

“I can’t stay there anymore,” she admits, a quiet sob.

“Hey—” Hermione tugs at her arm and Astoria folds into her in an instant.

“Pans is fighting with her mom, too,” she cries. “I’m afraid someone is gonna kill each other.”

“Astoria—”

“I think we’re gonna leave,” she says, cutting Hermione off. She freezes. She’s been avoiding a lot of people in the last two years, but suddenly the thought of not having Astoria around guts her. It’s surprising and then it’s not and Hermione clings a little tighter.

“Leave?” she asks, nothing more than a croak.

Astoria nods. “They were on their own in America, and they liked it. They said we can do it.”

“You’re going to live in America?” Hermione asks, breathless.

“It’s one idea. Boston, maybe. I’ve never been. Maybe a flat in London instead. I dunno, yet. Pans is making plans. She’s good at it.”

“Really?” Hermione scoffs.

“You don’t actually know her,” Astoria reminds her. “You’re picturing a twelve-year-old bully and a scared seventeen-year-old girl. She’s not either of those things anymore. Most days.”

“Alright, fine,” Hermione rolls her eyes. Acquiescing for the moment. “I’ll… I’ll miss you if you go,” she admits.

“Really?” Astoria asks, almost skeptical.

“Yes,” Hermione says, fierce. “I’m sorry that I’ve been…”

“I know.”

“We can all _Apparate,_ ” she says. Though Astoria looks despondent when she nods along.

“Are things with your parents better then?” Astoria asks, watching Neville fall into the water again.

“A bit, yes. I don’t… I don’t know if they’ll ever get much better than this, to be honest. I think I’ve come to accept it and they have too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The war took something from everyone,” Hermione shrugs.

Astoria knocks her head into Hermione’s. “Yeah,” she whispers.

…

…

Hermione goes back for her third year of university and Astoria moves to Boston with Daphne and Pansy Parkinson.

The way that Ginny tells it, Astoria got into a horrible, horrible screaming row with her mother and her mother pulled out her wand and then Daphne jumped in between them. They were disowned. Hermione remembers the charred bits of wall in Grimmauld Place where Sirius and Andromeda’s faces should have been and closes her eyes tight.

Pansy was not disowned. Pansy simply told her mother that she was stifling her and took a sack of money and decided that America was far enough away for a necessary bit of space. According to Ginny—who Hermione isn’t sure has all of the information—Mrs. Parkinson rolled her eyes and waved her goodbye.

Ginny tells Hermione all of this in half a breath, huffing from her latest practice. She says something about Luna that has Hermione’s eyebrows raising, but she doesn’t get to ask and then she forgets to, school taking up all her time.

She barely makes it to therapy every week and starts cutting back to once a month. She misses weekly excursions with Harry to the Tonks’ home, but she’s more swamped than she can ever remember being in her life. It’s taking all of her energy to focus on school.

She only hears about her friends’ lives through calls with Harry, or hurried updates from Ginny, the occasional letter from Ron or Astoria.

Ron stops working at the pub and moves into a flat with George and Lee Jordan. He starts helping out at the joke shop and sounds happier than Hermione’s heard him in months. She tells him so, and he shrugs, just shy of sheepish until he turns it back to her. “And you? Studying isn’t all there is in life, y’know?”

“I’m fine Ron,” she tells him. She almost means it.

She throws herself into her studies and only comes up for air over winter break. She spends three long days in Australia and then four at the Burrow. Molly’s orders. She shares a bed with Ginny and shuffles past Ron in the halls and none of it is awkward and all of it is lovely and it is desperately needed. She tells Molly so, when she asks, a day before she’s set to leave to head back for school.

“You can come back anytime,” Molly says, fierce. “You should. Look how thin you are, you need some good home-cooked meals.”

“I’ll try,” Hermione says, making no promises. She does manage it, three times during the course of the semester and Molly _glows_ with happiness and shovels food into Hermione and plies her with tea and hugs and leaves her feeling warm and calm.

Ginny isn’t there two out of the three times Hermione goes. She’s always busy with practices and games nowadays, but when she’s not, both Luna and Harry are the two names she mentions most. Ginny is on Harry’s mind again more often than not whenever Hermione and Harry chat, Luna too. There is something that none of them are saying, outright, something that Hermione thinks none of them are even aware of, or know how to voice. So, she lets it lie.

…

…

Harry finds her, on the roof.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one hiding on my birthday?” he asks, chuckling.

Hermione shrugs. “I wasn’t hiding. I’m starting a tradition.”

“Which is?” he asks, passing a mug of coffee over to her.

“This,” Hermione says, simple.

Harry frowns and lowers himself down beside her as Hermione offers up no other explanation. “Sunrise and coffee?” he hedges, a beat later. Hermione turns and smiles. “Alright, sounds good to me,” he decides, sipping at his own mug. “S’ong as we do it on yours, too.”

“I suppose,” Hermione decides. “Happy birthday, Harry. I’m very glad that you are twenty-one years old.”

He grins at her, sideways. His hair is a mess, she doesn’t try to smooth it. Hers is, too. Their shoulders knock together as they sip at their coffee and Harry looks down and Hermione susses out that he’s trying to tell her something, and he thinks that she isn’t going to like it.

“What?” she asks, gentle as she can manage. Which isn’t much.

“I’m taking the auror test,” he says. Hermione sucks in a breath then snaps her mouth shut; it’s not her right to control someone just because they matter to her. “I know you said… but I keep thinking about it, and I want to give it a try anyway.”

“Okay,” Hermione says. “Do you want me to help you study?”

“Would you?”

“Of course, Harry,” she says. “Just because I think you’d be better suited to something else doesn’t mean that I’m not—” she huffs. “I support you. In whatever,” she says, fierce. “Always.”

Harry beams at her and knocks their shoulders together, spilling the last of Hermione’s coffee onto the concrete. She gives him an unimpressed look that doesn't manage to conceal the way that the corner of her mouth is twitching, and his grin only widens further as he snakes an arm around her shoulders.

“I miss you,” Harry says, his voice small, and Hermione closes her eyes for a long moment and doesn’t move.

“I miss me, too,” she whispers. “I’m working on it.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud of us.”

Hermione turns and meets his eye. “We’re a mess,” she tells him, mouth twitching further as she says it. Harry knocks their mugs together again, spilling his own coffee and grinning.

“Yeah,” he parrots. “But I think there’s room for improvement.” Hermione rolls her head onto his shoulder, and watches the sun rise, slow. Warming her up.


End file.
